Happenstance
by MissZoey
Summary: A fan takes a holiday in the world of our favourite heroes. The problem? Guilt. It is not a matter of wanting to save everyone, but whether or not she should.
1. Pilot

**Disclaimer:** I do not own, nor have any rights over any of the characters pertaining to the Harry Potter series, nor is any copyright infringement intended. Margo remains my only creation.

**Author's Note:** This is a work of fiction about a fan whom takes a holiday in the world of Harry Potter. I have recycled this idea far too many times. Never have I been able to get it exactly the way I wanted – now I am simply throwing caution to the wind and seeing what happens. The outline, including major plot points, are all figured out. Changes may or may not occur in conjunction to the cannon storyline; it all depends! For now, please enjoy.

* * *

At first, it was gradual.

The colours were first, sounds muffled as if spoken through a thick, inanimate object. They were blurred, difficult to make out, and harder still to distinguish. Was there one voice, or perhaps two? Maybe a whole group of voices, all trying hard to talk over the other? I grasped at the sounds, each one new as a colour formed in to a shape, and as the shape began to sharpen around the edges so did the voices. There were people, certainly more than one. That was all I knew. There was nothing else.

Time, it seemed, was irrelevant; whilst I had certainly thought that the voices I heard were not old, that they had been talking mere seconds ago, there seemed to be a margin in which I acknowledged them, and when I managed to put them to the figures. When I happened to open my eyes, the colours and figures less blurred then before, the room was empty. The noises had stopped, save a gentle ticking, and a soft, delicate whistle that whispered about the room.

It was then, amidst my gradual reattainment of my senses, that I acknowledged the possibility I had lost consciousness some time ago, though I was so far unaware how this had occurred. I knew I was lying down, only because the objects were all sideways, but I could not remember falling asleep. In fact, though I concentrated heavily on this one particular event, nothing sprang to mind; in actuality, I had lost a memory of utmost importance. This realisation, and the encounter of unfamiliar smells, instilled a fear so immediate that everything else was irrelevant, and I sprung up, both body and mind, to encounter a whole knew fear all in itself.

The room spun, but the rotation was slow – I was able to blink away the blurriness that followed a deep, unwelcome sleep. Before me was a small table, and beyond that an even larger one. To my left a staircase wound upwards, and little beyond that, closer to the larger table, was a mantlepiece; it boasted a collection of pictures and books, stacked three high, and a peculiar looking clock that nagged at the back of my mind as being eerily familiar. It reminded me of a cottage, both in size and contents, for the larger table occupied the majority of the kitchen where a door stood ajar, and ornate windows were pushed open welcoming the bright sunshine. The floor, mostly stone, looked cold despite the weather, and as I settled my own feet down I felt the tickle of soft fibres. In this instant it occurred to me that I was without footwear – the panic was not distilled, rather intensified by this new discovery.

_Where am I? How –_

If I could figure out where I was, I stood an equal chance of discovering how I had woken up here. The surroundings could not have posed less of a threat; my situation, however, encouraged a potentially dangerous predicament. I watched, out of some nervous apprehension, as shadows flitted across the kitchen floor. No matter what I did, the floodgates remained tight, firm, unyielding to my now desperate attempts to force them open and grant me answers. In this reluctant acceptance, I understood myself to have two options: remain, and hope that whoever resided here was both kind and knowledgeable, or I could run; the door was wide open, and whilst I was no athlete I fancied myself a fairly decent sprinter. I also decreased the likelihood of the occupants being dangerous or otherwise threatening by coming to the conclusion that were they either of those, then 1. the door would not be open, and 2. I would have woken with some kind of restraint. The door was open, I was not confined, and so with all the uncertainty and fear, the tiniest amount of hope I had managed to find gave me enough positivity to remain as I was; sitting still, arms wrapped around each other, eyes moving from one concealable place to the next.

Six minutes passed – and I counted each second – before I noticed anything out of the ordinary. A dishcloth, perfectly ordinary as a kitchen accessory, began to move. As if being held, it began to move against another perfectly ordinary object – a mug – which itself was suspended mid-air, as if held. It took me a moment, but in that moment I realised several things:

1. The washing up was washing itself. 2. In that same second, the peculiar-looking clock on the wall moved, several hands stretching at once to different headings (curious, for a clock to have headings instead of numbers). 3. A giant ball of fluff leapt from the chair next to me, revealing another ball of wool, which then shivered, before two ornate sticks began to wind it between them, and 4. The house, and all its peculiarity, was the residence of a family whom until quite recently I believed to be works of fiction.

My right hand flew to my mouth. My knees sprung to my chest. In a single, swift movement both my arms wrapped as tight as was possible to be around said knees. Eyes still forward, I stared, huddled like a small, terrified child. My heart beat furiously against my chest. Blood pumped in my ears. The panic, the fear, the excitement – all had been building gradually, yet seemed to catch up all at once. It was a fear unknown to me, a fear which encompassed both dread and anticipation all at once. I tried to imagine it as a dream, but I could not move to pinch the smallest amount of skin. Dreams, to me, had always been abstract; never had I truly experienced a deep enough state of unconsciousness to live in something that felt real.

Everything here felt real. It was not just the feeling of the carpet beneath my feet, or the smell of wild flowers wafting through the window, or indeed even the clucking of chickens and the distinct scent of a country home – no, despite all of these things, it was the drumming of my heart and the _tap tap tap_ my feet were making against the ground – all habits of nervousness – that reinforced my belief that a dream could not be the furthest explanation from the truth.

Distracted by the ever-expanding bubble of excitement, I had neglected my observations – the door, previously ajar by the tiniest amount, was now wide open. No billowing force of wind had thrown it open, so it had to have been a person – one of the occupants – and sure enough, as I inclined my head steadily to one side I could just about peak round the side of the mantlepiece.

A mass of ginger hair produced itself at the pace of an extremely content slug. Big, round eyes soon followed, staring as if I were an abnormality, and no sooner had I opened my mouth, my own pace slow yet full of a feverish apprehension, did the girl disappear out the door.

I wanted to get up; I wanted to follow, but my feet would not move, nor would my body lift itself to stand. The funny thing about fear is that it is paralysing, that regardless of whether it is fuelled by excitement or dread you are stuck. With all the words I had spoken in my life, I suddenly found myself without a single one to use. This could not have been more unwanted. I had always imagined what I would say to any of the characters I had grown up with, yet now, as the door opened even more and not one or two but three people entered the room I could remember none of it.

In fact, the only coherent thing I was capable of doing was eliciting a rather shaky "uhm..." in response to a perfectly fair question.

"How did you get here?"

Naturally, "uhm" did not feel like the correct response, and in any case, I could not think of a less imposing opening line. It did not matter; Arthur Weasley had spoken, and it was imperative that I answer. Providing an answer that they wanted to hear was the issue; I could give them any name in the world, including my own, but any one of those could invite a snowball effect – I was desperate to avoid this at all costs. So I had just a few options, and very little time to pick one. The eventuality of this was overwhelming, as I was no conversationalist, and would have preferred to stick my nose in a book – preferably their book – damned be the consequences. If it struck me as odd that all I had for company now was Arthur, Molly and Percy Weasley, it was nothing compared to the look of compassion that beheld Molly's face. Clearly whatever I had stumbled in to, or whenever I had woken up, happened to be before any atrocities occurred; indeed, before anything bad. At a guess I would assume early Hogwarts years, judging only by the baby-face Percy wore. This begged further questions, and even more when I asked myself how I would gain these answers without earning a one-way ticket to St. Mungo's.

All questions aside, the mere act of thinking on them spoke wonders. I wanted to embark down one of three options, but I really needed more time to figure out which one was right. Sense told me that determining the time frame could not be done by asking whether or not Fred was alive, or even if Percy was a royal ass. Declaring myself a resident of another world would inevitably end in disaster. Blurting out that I was dreaming was my first thought, until I considered that I had not a single shred of proof that I was, particularly as everything here was so convincing. Falling at their feet was a big no-no.

In the end, I picked Hogwarts, drawing on every ounce of my knowledge of the fandom through years of loyal following. I mustered a breath, choked, and was about to start again when Molly cut through the silence.

"Oh Arthur, she is obviously confused. We should take her to St. Mungo's, or at the very least call someone to take a look." She paused. Percy folded his arms, though one clung to his wand. I scoffed at the idea of me being a threat. Naturally, they wanted answers – but so did I. I had to be clever and figure out a way to get my questions answered whilst not completely evading theirs. "What's your name?"

"Margo," I offered, thankful that an easier question had been given. My mind continued working overtime, grasping at any answer that appeared remotely useful or otherwise convincing. "I... uh, I don't remember..." I was not lying. It was the best I could offer without more time, and anyway, it really was not far from the truth. I could not remember. All I knew, at this precise moment, was that I had not fallen asleep, and that whatever had happened, it had given me an experience I should not take for granted.

Arthur's eyes widened in surprise, whilst Percy's narrowed. I caught myself watching him, caught between bewilderment and anxiety; it seemed improbable at this stage that Percy would be anything other than a concerned family member.

"I don't recognise you from Hogwarts. What house are you in?" Percy folded his arms, most certainly a man of authority even now.

"Hogwarts?" I squeaked, suddenly erect, as words began to fall about my ears. _Hogwarts, St. Mungo's, house?_ It were as if something had clunked me about the head; all at once, everything crashed and simultaneously came together.

"You two!" Molly tutted, pushed her way past them both and came to sit in the chair previously occupied by the self-knitting scarf. "Take some time to rest dear. We will keep an eye on you," she shot a look at her husband that spoke volumes about her character, "if you still struggle to remember, we can take you to St. Mungo's and get you sorted." Her voice sounded like butter; it melted, a continuous soft-spoken kindness that attached none of the vindictiveness her son would inherit. I glanced at Arthur quickly – he did not seem best pleased, not at first, but after a few seconds his frown softened.

"Thank you." It seemed apparent then that Molly had outspoken Arthur's uncertainty; she stood, and for a few moments they moved in to the kitchen, talking through hushed whispers, whilst Percy bore down his uncompromising scowl. Giddy with excitement and the knowledge of my whereabouts, I took this moment of clarity with both hands and truly began to peer about my surroundings. It was remarkable, that somehow these people were living and breathing before me, whilst I had previously only imagined it to be so. Nevertheless, I clung to my newfound sense of awe, dismissing any fears I had first encountered upon regaining consciousness. All fears, it seemed, had more or less diminished, and I was left with a tingling apprehension – the only real concern I could imagine was the plethora of lies I would have to weave in order to conceal my truth from them all. The Weasleys I did not imagine would be a problem, but my mind all of a sudden thought of Dumbledore, and I swallowed nervously.

The few moments passed, and both Molly and Arthur re-entered the room. Molly did not relcaim her seat, but stood resolutely beside her husband. Neither looked disappointed or angry, but there was an inherent sense of urgency I felt to think of something – fast.

"We found you by our chickens," she explained, as if it would help me remember. I stared, doing my best to appear dumbfounded.

"I know I was with someone," I offered, though the thoughts had barely transpired before they were out of my mouth. "I can't remember." I tried – for my benefit, not theirs – but I could not come to a conclusion as to where my last moments were. What I had told them was a passable lie; I _thought_ I had been with someone, but then came the nagging – the incessant poking around the back of my mind that told me I was straying in to cold water.

"Never mind – at least you are awake! We were starting to get concerned." Molly folded her arms now. "Could you possibly have apparated?"

The term was certainly not new to me, though it had not crossed my mind to offer it as an explanation. It fit quite perfectly, however, perhaps the only reason why I would have turned up in their residence.

So I did the only thing I could think of – I nodded. "Though I don't think_ I_ did." I was getting dizzy; the thrill of pretending that my language was theirs was overwhelming.

"I think you need rest," was the reply. I could not disagree with her more. I was wide awake, surviving purely on adrenaline. The last thing I wanted to do was close my eyes – what if this was all a dream? No, it couldn't be – dreams did not feel like this. To me they were disjointed. This was real.

Apparation did not explain my disappearance from one world, but it gave them something, and if nothing else it provided me with a stepping stone – the first lie to weave in a thickly tangled web.


	2. A Pompous Git

**Disclaimer:** I do not own, nor have any rights over any of the characters pertaining to the Harry Potter series, nor is any copyright infringement intended. Margo remains my only creation.

**Author's Note:** Thank you to all who viewed / added / followed the pilot chapter. As is tradition, it seems, things take a little while to get going. Explanations will happen, I promise. Reviews feed the plot bunny. I think I mentioned before that I have everything mapped out, but I am not apposed to suggestions, ideas etc etc. Reviewers also get cookies, because I made too many. (If it helps, they have smarties in them).

* * *

In the hours following my rest, I took the liberty of observing my surroundings. Ginny's room was larger than it seemed, but there was so much cramped in to the space it played on the niggling sense of claustrophobia I had inherited as a child. The longer I remained on the floor, the more my anxiety began to grow. I tried to let it fester (I was not ordinarily an anxious person), but the reality was substantially more imposing. Ginny's bookcase was bursting with material, each one tattered and well-worn, but each with glowing titles I was desperate to get my hands on. Unable to stifle my curiosity, I pushed myself to stand and gingerly approached the shelves. It was only then did I notice it had been carved from wood, perhaps even by hand. I considered Arthur's obsession with Muggle objects and most certainly their lifestyle; in the end, I decided that it was entirely possible he had made some haphazard attempt at grafting, but like everything else had hidden some magical properties within. It was all very surreal, least of all because I had been accepted so readily. Had they objected - and Percy had made an attempt to - perhaps it would have felt less intrusive. Nevertheless, I was here, and as absurd as the reality was, it just so happened to be true.

I was not left to my own devices for long. Moments after my hand had clasped a battered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages did a mop of red hair peak round the side of the door. Ginny was adorable, perhaps a head smaller than myself, but with an aura of assertiveness; with the only other female in the home being her mother, it did not surprise me. Even though she hesitated to approach - and I was in her room - she still emitted a strength I could not fathom. The freckled, wide-eyed girl slowly padded in to the room, glanced at the floor and then peered at me intently. Until she had done so, I had not realised I had dropped the book. Hastily I gathered it up and cleared my throat.

"Sorry, I was just looking -,"

Ginny smiled. A testament to her strength and independence, she appeared to have quickly forgotten about her initial reluctance and approached me now with newfound confidence. "It used to be my brother Charlie's, but he gave it to me." I was not surprised by her confession, but it struck a chord. I knew that Ginny received hand-me-downs, that she rarely had anything new, and for a short while I felt rather sorry for her. Ginny grew to be a kind and loyal individual, so it stood to reason that both she and the rest of her family deserved much more. There was nothing I could do, so I kept quiet.

"It can't be easy, what with so many brothers. How do you manage?"

She found this funny, and I suppose in a way it was for her. What could she do but cope? They were not bad. "They tease me a lot, but I love them." How could such a well-rounded individual suffer such misfortune? I thought of Fred, about their inevitable loss, and swallowed a lump that grew quickly in my throat. I smiled away my upset and replaced the book. "Mum wants to know if you are hungry."

Hungry? I was starving. Yet without wanting to come off as rude, I could not very well announce this. In fact it was only when Ginny brought up food as a reachable occurrence did I feel the pangs of hunger at all. I nodded, beside myself, nerves propelling me forwards. On the way down the winding staircase that, when I looked upwards, never appeared to end, we paused to allow another red-head to exit what I rightly guessed to be his room.

Ronald Weasley was a small, round-faced freckled boy with the cheekiest glint in his eyes. He appeared, even with the frown, to be a boy of comedic influence, demonstrated by the cheerful "Hullo" thrown behind his shoulder as he flew down the stairs. His gave the impression of a child whom had been starved of food what with the speed in which he moved; by the time Ginny and myself had rounded in to the kitchen, he was heartily tucking in to a steaming plate of bacon and eggs.

At no other point in the past twenty-four hours did I feel as much of an intruder as I did now. Molly was frantic, bustling hastily about the kitchen as she dished up plate after plate, but found enough time to ferry me in to my seat. Until all were sat, minus Arthur, no mention was made of my appearance or how I came to be here.

With his father absent, and being the eldest male in attendance, Percy assumed responsibility of alpha male. Whilst tucking in to an oversized potato wedge, he made haste at getting straight to the point. "Now that you have slept, do you remember anything about how you got here?"

I picked at my food, suddenly not all that hungry. "I remember little. I thought I was on my own, but I can't have been, unless someone snuck up on me..." In truth, I was considering every possibility which had brought me here, to this world more than this house. Though I wondered of all the places why here, I could not complain at all; I could have ended up somewhere worse, and they certainly would have been less lenient than the Weasley's.

"That someone would send you here does not seem very likely." Percy responded, taking one brief moment to glance up at me before stuffing a large tomato in his mouth. I looked at my own.

"Unless they did not know where they were sending me, if they sent me at all. I don't remember-"

"What House are you in? You go to Hogwarts, do you not?" He interrupted.

"Gryffindor." I answered swiftly. This was untrue to an extent; I had always favoured the neglected Hufflepuff, but knew that in reality I was probably more at home in Ravenclaw than anywhere else. As soon as I said this, however, I knew it to be a mistake; the entire Weasley clan had been in Gryffindor for generations, and they would surely have recognised me.

Percy frowned intently. "I have not seen you before."

"Knock it off, Perc. You know how many people there are at Hogwarts. Even if she is in our House, she is probably so quiet no-one notices her." Fred gave me a grin, and his brother quickly followed suit. Did they do everything together?

"What year are you in?"

"Third. I mean, I will be in my third-" I was close to thirteen. As the eldest of five, I had grown up quickly. I was also taught independence through the attention our parents had to spread amongst us. As the eldest, I was expected to have more in the way of understanding that there was only so much attention I could receive, but I was still loved just as equally.

"Same as us," George grinned. "Marvellous."

My attention was divided between what he had said and the tremendous amount of guilt which grew from harbouring a terrible secret. I looked at him, responded with a smile in kind, and looked back to Percy. His attitude did not come as a shock to me; he grew to be a traitor to the family after all. His personal ambition became the ruin of him, as much as Voldemort's greed was his. Greed factored in many defeats; nobody knew when it was time to stop.

"What I fail to understand-"

"Seriously, Perc, drop it. Don't be a pretentious-"

"Fred Weasley!" Molly finally joined the conversation, shooting the culprit a look of distaste. "I have contacted Dumbledore. The man is incredibly busy, so I do not expect a response immediately. He may be able to help you, Margo. I have also considered St. Mungos; there is, however, little they can do for memory loss. So I expect a visit there would be ineffective." I knew that. I only had to look to Lockhart, and what little they could do for him, to know that what they perceived as memory loss would never be resolved. My own lapse in memory, however, concerned me; I still had no idea what I had been doing prior to waking up here, and I had little way of figuring this out. My only idea – and this had occurred to me during my wash this morning – was to hunt down the names of my family members and friends in this world, to see if they exist and, more importantly, see if they knew who I was.

What I had not considered was Dumbledore. The man was a genius, the greatest wizard currently alive (and arguably of many centuries). I was a fool to think I could pull the wool over his eyes. Why would I? Nobody else had managed it. Even when he thought he had, Dumbledore could see through Harry's pretence. It would not be difficult to see through mine.

The rest of breakfast passed in a flurry of disjointed chatter. Percy never stopped stealing glances, making it known that I had little place at his family table. I had to agree with him there; though I would have voiced my objections, introductions had been made. Clearly my acceptance rode on Ginny's willingness to talk to me about anything and everything. I offered to clear away, but with a swish of her wand Molly commanded the plates to a neat pile; another swish turned the taps on and filled a sink; the final swish set the cloths in gear, plates dunking and washing themselves as if it were perfectly natural. There was not, however, a pair of hands in sight.

Whilst the sight made me smile, Percy continued to scowl. It were as if he too carried the weight of Dumbledore's responsibilities, but unlike him did not have the abilities to unmask me. This suited me just fine – I did not know how to explain to them who I was, least of all what I knew.

I received a small tug on my wrist which pulled me back to the present. Ginny blinked up at me, lips set in a wide smile. Her bob was tucked behind either ear, her face pale, bright and decorated with freckles. I swallowed, smiled back, and watched as Percy carried his scowl with him up the stairs.

Someone patted me on the back.

"Pay him no attention. He's a pompous git at the best of times." George was practically beaming.

"I would say _all_ the time." Fred nodded fervently. I knew they had little in the way of respect for their brother. Percy appeared to look down on them. He was ambitious, which would eventually be his downfall.

"Why don't we take our new friend out to the orchard, Gin?" Fred continued, shooting me a look which I read as absolute excitement. It took me a moment to catch on, and even though he elaborated, he needn't have; I knew exactly what he meant.

They were taking me to play Quidditch.


End file.
